


All I ask of you

by Meersie9977929



Category: Amadeus (1984), Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao, Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: (I mean he’s gonna die it’s history y’all), Composers Being Not Rivals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mozalieri if you like, Mozart Needs Sleep, Mozart Requiem, Multi, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meersie9977929/pseuds/Meersie9977929
Summary: Mozart’s final days, surrounded by friends and family.
Relationships: Constanze Weber Mozart/Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart & Antonio Salieri, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart/Antonio Salieri
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I’m blending some bits from _Amadeus_ (namely that Constanze was away when Wolfgang took ill and that Salieri helped with the Requiem in Wolfgang’s final days, along with Süssmayr as history and MOR shows) into this but the inspiration for this fic was definitely the Takarazuka Revue 2019 production of _Mozart l’opera rock_ starring Rei Makoto as Wolfgang, Maisora Hitomi as Constanze, and Nagina Ruumi as Salieri. And yes, the title is from the song of the same name in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s _The Phantom of the Opera_.

_Something certainly seems off with Mozart this evening_ , mused Antonio Salieri as he watched from his box in the Wiednertheater. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was conducting this evening’s performance of _The Magic Flute_ and his metrical patterns and cues were just fine, but to a trained eye it would appear that some of his usual sparkle was missing. There seemed to be no joy in the Austrian composer and despite their rivalry, Salieri was concerned. Had something happened? He glanced around the audience and did not see Constanze Weber — no, Constanze Mozart, she hadn’t been a Weber for years — nor their children nor extended family, save Josepha Hofer on the stage. Was his loneliness the source of Mozart’s lack of energy? Again, Salieri was concerned. 

The one familiar face he spied in the crowd was Franz Xaver Süssmayr, his former student who had befriended Mozart. Süssmayr still sought his advice for compositional pursuits, but he saw the man infrequently. The younger man was also watching Mozart’s back, and Salieri could see the fear and worry in his face. Süssmayr must have felt Salieri’s eyes on him, as he lifted his gaze and nodded grimly at the Italian. 

The next aria was one for the birdcatcher, Papageno. Mozart was moving down from the podium to the keyed glockenspiel used for the magic bells in this scene. His steps were delicate, but somehow hurried and anxious. How one man could project all of that in a stride was baffling — but then, this was Mozart. So much of him was baffling (and yet somehow endearing, if Salieri was being honest). Still, when he arrived at his keyboard seat, Salieri sighed in relief along with Mozart. 

The keyed glockenspiel faced Salieri’s side of the theater, so he could get a better look at Mozart’s face. Now he understood Süssmayr’s concerned expression: Mozart looked _ragged._ Sure, he still had a powdered wig on, but his coat looked worn and his face was pale even without powder. His eyes looked dark and not just with his usual kohl and tinted eyelids. Salieri inhaled nervously and wondered if Mozart would make it through this performance. 

He got his answer when Mozart, eyes slipping closed, stumbled away from the glockenspiel and nearly collided with some theatergoers as he landed on the floor. He shakily got back up, assisted by a man in the crowd. He clutched a nearby column for support, then turned even paler, almost green. He held a hand to his mouth and frantically ran backstage as Emanuel Schikanaeder looked on bewilderedly from the stage. Salieri locked eyes with Süssmayr again and, with a nod, they both moved to follow Mozart backstage. The music continued, but neither man cared. 

When they found Mozart, he was leaning against a wall and clutching a wastebasket. The Austrian composer looked confused at their dual presence. 

“Wolfgang, what’s happened?” asked Süssmayr, gently cupping Mozart’s face in his palms. 

“I-I’m f-f-fine,” chatter-lied Mozart. “I c-can go b-back—” but the rest of his sentence was cut off as he slid to the floor with a coughing fit. Breathing heavily but quickly, he closed his eyes in exhaustion once the fit subsided.

Salieri knelt and laid a hand against Mozart’s forehead. Clammy and warm, signaling a fever. He glared at some nearby chorusfolk to keep them away, then turned to Süssmayr. “We need to get him home. Do you know where he lives?”

Süssmayr nodded as he lifted Mozart into his arms. “I’ll get him there,” he replied. 

“My carriage is outside, load him in. I’ll ride with you,” Salieri said. When Mozart tried to protest, Salieri glared halfheartedly and added, “This is for your own good, Mozart. We can’t have you causing a panic if you collapse again in the pit.” 

Mozart sighed, coughed once more, then nodded. He loosely wrapped his arms around Süssmayr’s neck and closed his eyes as they exited through the performers’ door. Salieri quickly went to alert the alternate conductor of Mozart’s condition, then left the building. Once he got the address from Süssmayr, they were off to Mozart’s flat. 

Upon arrival, Salieri opened the carriage door and found Mozart unconscious in Süssmayr’s arms. Alarmed, Salieri asked, “What happened?”

“He was shivering and then he started coughing again, but he coughed so hard that he fainted,” replied Süssmayr sadly. “He had a case of bronchitis earlier in the season, but he told me he was feeling better.”

Salieri’s frown deepened in concern. “Clearly not. Let’s get him inside.” Supporting him from both sides, they got Mozart indoors and in bed. They built a slight incline of pillows and draped his warmest jacket over him, along with all available blankets. Süssmayr went into the kitchen to make some tea, while Salieri pulled up a chair beside Mozart’s bed to keep watch. 

Salieri removed Mozart’s wig - a simpler one, certainly not as flashy as the one from the premiere of _The Abduction from the Seraglio_ \- and noted the warmth radiating from the younger man’s brow. Definitely a fever, not surprising with the chill inside and outside. Salieri quickly went to the washroom and arranged a little bowl of lukewarm water to offer some relief. He returned and gently wiped Mozart’s brow. 

At the touch of the washcloth, Mozart shifted and inhaled softly. He slowly opened his large brown eyes, somehow looking both younger and older than his 35 years. Weakly, he asked, “What happened? Where am I?”

“We’re at your home,” replied Salieri as he draped the cloth over the bowl. “You took ill mid-performance. Mozart, are you quite all right? And where is your family?”

Mozart gingerly raised himself into a more seated position. “Constanze and my children are at the spa, no idea when they’ll return. Her mother sent them off to get away from me.” He coughed into his elbow. “I think I’ve relapsed into bronchitis or something. I might be dying.”

Salieri clicked his tongue in mild annoyance at the dramatic statement. “Mozart, you cannot be dying. You’re so much younger than I.”

“Yes, but—” another cough, then composure. “I’ve been working on a Requiem.”

“A Requiem Mass? For whom?” asked Salieri, although he knew the answer. He was the one who sent the masked intermediary to Mozart with the down payment, after all. 

Mozart stared at his trembling hands. “I don’t know. A man in black came on behalf of a rich benefactor, gave me 100 ducats upfront.” Looking at Salieri, he added in a low voice, “I think it may have been Death asking me to write my own Requiem. Does that seem possible?” He curled in on himself as if expecting the masked man to fall through the ceiling. 

_What have I done?_ thought Salieri panickedly. _I should never have sent that messenger. I’ve driven him to madness!_ He leaned closer and grasped Mozart’s left hand, then took the younger man by the chin and looked him straight in the eye. 

“Wolfgang, I don’t believe Death has asked this Requiem of you,” he said, softly but firmly. “God is the only higher power who could; you are Amadeus, after all. But this cannot be, you are still so young! You must get well!”

Mozart’s cheeks flushed, then he huffed out a chuckle. “You’ve never called me Wolfgang.”

“I’ve never been close enough to,” replied Salieri with a soft smile. 

Mozart smiled tiredly in kind. “You could even call me Wolfie if you wanted.” He paused, stroking Salieri’s hand in his with his thumb. Then, “How did you like my opera?”

“It was beautiful,” Salieri said without hesitation. “This was my second time seeing it, I liked it that much.”

The Austrian looked up at the Italian. “Y-you did?” At a nod from Salieri, he grinned brightly and a single tear rolled down Mozart’s cheek. “You were the only colleague of mine who came.”

“Not true!” came a call from the doorway. Süssmayr entered the bedroom with a full tea tray in hand. He set it down on the bedside table, then arranged a cup of tea for Mozart. 

“Too right, Franz!” Mozart replied. “Thank you both for being there tonight.” His eyes seemed to sparkle again, and he almost looked like the old Mozart. 

Salieri smiled, then rearranged Mozart’s pillows so he could sit up in bed. Once that was done, he tucked the chair back against the wall and said, “I’ll be going now, but let me know if anything changes.” He made to exit, but a hand held him in place. 

Mozart clung to his sleeve, brown eyes wide and brimming with tears. “Salieri, _no!_ Don’t leave me!” He hugged the Italian’s arm, desperate and shivering. “Everyone I care about leaves — Mama, Aloysia, Papa, Stanzi, and now you. Please, I can’t —” he broke into another coughing fit and his tears were loosed. 

Salieri quickly climbed onto the bed and gathered Mozart into his arms, rocking them back and forth. _How could I hurt this man? This beautiful, brilliant man?_ he thought, angry at himself and feeling the beginning of hot tears in his own eyes. _He did not deserve this and may I burn in hell for wanting him ruined._ He continued to rock, softly apologizing to Mozart and holding him to his chest. 

Once the younger man was calm again, save a stray hiccup here or there, Salieri cupped Mozart’s face in his left hand. Softly, he said, “Forgive me, Wolfgang, I didn’t mean to upset you so. I will not leave you alone.” He wiped the last of Mozart’s tears away, then guided the younger man back to his chest, hoping his steady heartbeat would be soothing. “Will you let us take care of you, help you? I would see you comfortable and smiling again, Wolfgang.”

Mozart sniffled and said, “I would like that very much.” He eased himself back to lay against the pillows, still holding onto Salieri’s sleeve. He then asked, “Salieri— no, Antonio, would you help me into my nightshirt? I feel so weak and I’m not sure I could manage the walk to my dresser.” He pointed at the bottom drawer of the dresser across the room. “There should be a clean one in there.”

Salieri retrieved the requested nightshirt — a flannel one, at that. He and Süssmayr gently helped Mozart out of his clothes and into the fresh garment. Süssmayr handed Mozart his tea, and helped him lean back into his pillows. 

Salieri soaked and wrung out the washcloth, then settled beside Mozart again once he had drunk his tea. The latter seemed to know what he wanted and closed his eyes so Salieri could remove his makeup. The eyeshadow came off easily, the kohl less so. After a little work at it, Salieri realized that there were also massive dark circles under Mozart’s eyes. He clicked his tongue, then asked, “When did you last get a good night’s sleep, Wolfgang?”

Mozart sighed. “I don’t think I’ve slept well since my father died. Not without aid, that is, but Cäcilia threw out all of my wine when Constanze and Karl and Franz left for the spa.” He smiled halfheartedly. “I miss them dearly.”

“They‘ll be back,” soothed Süssmayr. “I could send a message, if you like? Do you know where they went?”

“Probably Baden,” replied Mozart, “but please don’t. I’ve caused Constanze enough pain, I don’t want her to see me like this.” Salieri and Süssmayr shared a look, but didn’t say anything further. 

Salieri made sure Mozart drank all of his tea, then took the cup and handed it back to Süssmayr. He dabbed at Mozart’s forehead again, and the younger man sighed in relief. 

Then, he twined his left hand with Salieri’s free hand. When Salieri quirked an eyebrow at him, Mozart simply said, “Your hands are warm and soft, mine are cold.”

Salieri gently smiled at Mozart and, once he returned the washcloth to its place, wrapped his other hand around Mozart’s left one. “I will gladly warm this for you, Wolfgang.”

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. Mozart tensed and his pupils shrank to pinpricks. “He’s here,” he whispered, “the man in black.” With a nod, Salieri got up to answer the door, but once again found his arm held captive by Mozart’s frightened grasp. “Please tell him that it’s not ready. I need more time.”

Salieri gently placed Mozart’s hand down on the bed with a squeeze. _My messenger shouldn’t be coming tonight,_ he thought as he approached the door. _Then who...?_

It was indeed not his Requiem messenger, but rather Schikanaeder at the door with the opera’s monetary returns for the evening. Salieri explained Mozart’s illness as a temporary thing, and told Schikanaeder that the composer would hopefully be back next week. The singer departed and Salieri retreated back into the flat. 

Süssmayr emerged from the bedroom. “Who was it?” he asked. 

“Only Schikanaeder,” replied Salieri. He held up the little bag of coins from the evening’s ticket sales. “He brought this for Mozart. Do you think it would be enough for a doctor’s visit?”

“Doubtful,” said Süssmayr, “and I don’t think Wolfgang would want us to bring one anyway. He thinks he’s dying, so he wouldn’t see much point in it.” He looked sadly at the bedroom door. “I don’t know how to help him, Maestro. What should we do?”

Salieri sighed. “I don’t know either. All I want is for him to be comfortable, especially if these really are his last days, so I will do what he asks of me - or rather, of us.” He held out a hand to his former student. “Will you stay, Franz?”

Süssmayr shook his teacher’s hand. “Of course, Maestro Salieri.” They smiled in solidarity, then returned to Wolfgang’s bedside. 

When they returned, Mozart leaned forward in the bed, looking worried. “What did he want? Did he say anything?” he asked, still fearful of the possibly spectral messenger. 

“It was only Schikanaeder, Wolfgang,” replied Salieri soothingly, “just checking in for the night. I told him you would hopefully be back next week.” He set the money bag on the nightstand. 

Mozart exhaled in relief. “Good. My Requiem isn’t even close to complete.” Then, he perked back up slightly. “Would you like to see what I have of it, Antonio? It’s only the first two movements, but I think it’s a good start.”

“Of course I would,” replied Salieri. 

Mozart instructed Süssmayr to grab the manuscript from his desk in the living room. Süssmayr returned slowly, studying the pages and handing them over with a look of awe on his face. 

Salieri took the manuscript, holding it as carefully as he had held any of Mozart’s other works when reading them. He read over the instrumentation list - orchestra, chorus, and solo voices in each part. “Do you know who you want as your soloists?” asked Salieri. 

“I want Josepha to sing the soprano line,” replied Mozart. “I’d ask Aloysia or Constanze or La Cavalieri, but I don’t know if they’ll want to.”

“I’m sure any of them would be happy to sing for you.” Hell, Salieri would sing the bass line if Mozart asked. 

Now to look at the score itself. A gentle start in the strings, then the woodwinds coming in, building to a firm announcement of D minor. Then the chorus in fugal succession, mirroring the orchestral gesture. Ah, such beauty! And then that soprano solo - how delicately soaring! Truly, a masterful start. 

“Wolfgang, it’s beautiful,” said Salieri once he had finished reading the draft. “I can’t wait to see what comes next.”

“I’m so glad you like it,” replied Mozart with a yawn and a little cough. “I hope the person who commissioned it likes it too. That is, if I ever finish...” he trailed off as his eyelids drooped shut. It seemed like he might go to sleep, but he started awake again with a sheepish smile at Salieri. “So sorry, Antonio, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“No, no, Wolfgang, you should rest. If you do, you’ll have more energy to work later,” said Salieri. He took Mozart’s left hand again. “Sleep, Wolfgang.”

“I don’t want to be a bore when you’re visiting,” Mozart said through another yawn. 

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be right here, waiting until you wake up.” Salieri smiled and gave Mozart’s hand a squeeze. “ _Sogni d’oro_ , Wolfgang.”

Within a few minutes, Mozart’s brown eyes had slid shut again. His breathing evened out as best he could, and his jaw relaxed. Salieri tucked him snugly under the covers and blew out most of the candles in the bedroom. 

Süssmayr returned with a cup of tea for Salieri. “Is he all right?” he asked. 

“Yes, just exhausted,” replied Salieri fondly.

“Maestro, I’ve had an idea,” said Süssmayr. “I know Wolfgang told us not to contact his wife, but I think his sister ought to know of his condition. They’re all each other have left of their family, and I’m sure she’d want to say goodbye if these are —” he took a shaky breath, but the end of his thought was clear. 

“I understand and I agree,” replied Salieri. “We’ll get a letter to her in the morning.” He glanced down at Mozart again, stroking his hand with his thumb. 

Süssmayr rolled his shoulders and stifled a yawn. “Sorry, Maestro, it’s been a long day. I might go and rest my eyes for a bit.” 

“That would be fine, I’ll keep watch tonight,” said Salieri. Before Süssmayr left the room, though, Salieri called out to him once more. “You can drop the ‘Maestro,’ Franz. We’re not in public and you haven’t been my student for years. Plain ‘Salieri’ or ‘Antonio’ will do.” He shooed the younger man away to rest in the sitting room. 

As Salieri made himself comfortable in his chair, he smiled down at Mozart. Yet he was still worried - based on what he had seen and heard, it seemed that Wolfgang was indeed not long for this world. He thread a hand in the younger man’s ash blonde hair, marveling at its softness. The moonlight lit his features; even with the darkness under his eyes, Mozart looked beautiful, an angel fallen from Heaven. 

Salieri blew out the last of the candles, then folded his hands in silent prayer. _Lord, I know I vowed to thwart Your plans for this man and called You my enemy, but I see now that it was wrong to do so. I am asking now for You to give him more time. Whatever time he needs to finish the work You tell him to write. He is not ready yet, Lord, he is so young. The world is not ready to return him to You. I must beg Your and his forgiveness, but I need time. Help us all prepare to say goodbye, Lord. In your name, I pray. Amen_. 

Mozart huffed out a tiny cough, as if he could sense that Salieri had let go of his hand. Sighing fondly, Salieri wrapped both of his hands around the Austrian’s left hand. The smallest hint of a smile formed on Mozart’s face, and Salieri mirrored it. 

Mozart woke up a couple of times in the night to cough, deep wracking coughs that shook his whole frame. Salieri was there each time, keeping his hands warm and soothing him back to sleep. As the night wore on, Salieri could feel his own eyes slipping shut and he folded over, face down, onto Mozart’s bed. Hands still clasped. 

***

Some hours later, Salieri woke. The sun was just starting to rise. Blue Hour. Mozart was fast asleep, curving just slightly to the left side of his bed. Salieri rolled up, vertebra by vertebra, until he was seated upright again. Then, he slowly delaced his fingers from Mozart’s loose grip. He stood up and quietly exited the bedroom, heading to the washroom.

Salieri splashed a little water on his face, then blearily looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was mussed, but otherwise he looked fine. He undid his hair ribbon and ran his fingers through his black locks to loosen them up. 

_Better check on Süssmayr_ , he thought. A cursory glance into the bedroom found Wolfgang thankfully still asleep. 

Making his way out to the sitting room, he found Süssmayr sleeping on a divan. His former pupil trembled in his sleep. Salieri went to the coat rack by the door, gathered up his cloak, and gently draped it over Süssmayr. 

Noting the change, Süssmayr stopped shivering and slowly opened his eyes. “What time is it?” he croaked, shifting to rise. 

Salieri hushed him and guided him back down on the divan. “Not quite sunrise,” he replied. “You can sleep longer if you like, Franz. I’ll start the tea in a bit.”

Süssmayr smiled sleepily, then asked, “Any change with Wolfgang?”

“Nothing significant. He’s still sleeping and I want him to stay that way for a while.” Salieri tucked his cloak around Süssmayr and laid a finger on his lips. “I’ll wake you if anything changes.” Süssmayr shut his eyes and drifted back off to sleep. 

Salieri noticed the desk by the window and remembered Süssmayr’s suggestion to contact Mozart’s sister. Thankfully there was parchment in the drawer and a full inkwell at the stand. He quickly wrote a message explaining the situation to Fräulein Mozart (having never met the woman, he had no idea if she was married or not) and sealed it up. 

He heard a carriage coming to a half outside. _If it’s the postman, that would be ideal,_ he mused, and waited for the sound of footsteps coming upstairs. 

Much to his surprise, Salieri was not greeted by a postman’s knock, but rather the sound of keys in a lock. The door opened, and he came face to face with —

“Frau Mozart?” he queried, then added, “welcome back.”

Constanze Mozart looked surprised and wary. “Why are you here, Maestro Salieri?” she asked, holding her infant son Franz protectively.

“Your husband took ill last night at the opera,” Salieri explained. “Herr Süssmayr and I were at hand, so we brought him home.”

“But why are you still here? Süssmayr I can understand, but why _you_?” She looked at him shrewdly, coming into his personal space while the carriage porter unloaded her luggage. Salieri heard Süssmayr stirring awake again. 

“He needed me. He was desperate and alone, Frau Mozart, and he asked me to stay.” Salieri darkly thought, _You, his beloved wife, were not here._

Constanze scoffed. “I rather doubt he would ask for you, Maestro Salieri.” She greeted Süssmayr when he approached and turned her next questions to him. “Franz, what happened? Why is _he_ here and why didn’t anyone tell me that Wolfgang was sick again?”

“It’s like Salieri said, Constanze,” replied Süssmayr placatingly. “We were both in the audience when Wolfgang collapsed last night, so we brought him home together. And he didn’t want to bother you, so we respected his wishes and didn’t send a message.”

Constanze was now fuming. “Well, Maestro, I would like you to respect _my_ wishes and leave! After all you’ve done to sabotage my husband’s career, I never want to see you here again!” She opened the door and rudely gestured for Salieri to exit. 

“‘Tonio, where’d you go?” came a soft moan from the other end of the room. Everyone turned and saw Wolfgang, wrapped in one of his blankets and clutching the door frame to stay upright as he entered the sitting room. 

Salieri moved to go to Wolfgang, but Constanze was quicker. She wrapped her husband in her arms and said, “Wolfie, I’m back! I promise, I won’t leave you alone again, darling.” She tenderly kissed his cheek. 

Wolfgang seemed to relax, nearly melting as he rested his head against his wife’s shoulder. “Oh, Stanzi, I’m so glad you’re home, but please don’t shout at my friend. Antonio was just —” he cut off as a cough erupted from his throat. He leaned away from her, then swayed back to look her in the eyes. “He was just trying to help me, since you weren’t here.” He smiled tiredly at her. “Is that all right, Stanzi? I wanted to ask my friends if they’d help me with this.” He opened his makeshift blanket cloak and revealed the Requiem manuscript. “Antonio likes it a lot.”

Constanze’s eyes widened and her smile dropped as she took the score from her husband. “No, Wolfie, no. This is what made you sick last time, remember? I won’t allow it.”

“But Stanzi, I need —” pleaded Wolfgang, but his wife cut him off. 

“Wolfgang, no,” she said. “You are not going to work on this piece again. We are going to get you well, my darling, and Maestro Salieri is going to leave us alone.” She turned her head sharply at Salieri. “Am I understood, Your Excellency?”

Salieri narrowed his eyes at the woman, then exhaled angrily. “Crystal clear, Frau Mozart. I shall take my leave.” 

Wolfgang struggled in Constanze’s arms, reaching over her shoulder for his friend. “Antonio, wait, please!” Another fit of coughing stopped him from saying more, but he looked heartbroken. 

Salieri half-smiled at Mozart, then closed the door and left the flat. He tucked his letter to Fräulein Mozart in the mailbox, then briskly walked home, hot tears stinging his eyes. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my lovely friend @chevalierene for betaing this work for me!

Nearly two days had passed since Salieri had been kicked out of the Mozarts’ flat, and he was - for lack of a better term - sulking. He was sad that he had to leave Wolfgang in his time of need; angry that Constanze was so rude and ignoring her husband’s wishes; and longing to hear more of the forthcoming Requiem. He sat at his piano, left elbow perched on the music rack, right hand resting gently on the middle octave. He sighed and hoped that inspiration would strike, but all of his thoughts were turned to Wolfgang. 

“Good morning, Salieeeeeri!” came a loud voice. Salieri turned, and in walked Count Orsini-Rosenberg. “I have some excellent news!”

Salieri pinched the bridge of his nose, then asked, “And what, pray tell, could be so excellent that you felt the need to interrupt my composing, Rosenberg?”

“Mozart is disgraced! Again!” cackled Rosenberg. “He collapsed while conducting that opera of his, _The Enchanted Harp_ —”

“You mean _The Magic Flute_ ,” interrupted Salieri. 

“Yes, yes, whatever. Anyway, he collapsed and left the theatre, and now his audience has dwindled! He’s ruined, this time forever!” Rosenberg bounced with a wicked grin on his face. 

“I doubt the ticket sales are _that_ low, the Viennese people love that show,” said Salieri.

“My spies said there was no one in the balcony boxes last night, and the ground floor was looking a bit spare too. It should close within the week!” The count was enjoying this entirely too much, too joyful for this hour of the day. 

“Did you even see the opera, Rosenberg?” asked Salieri. “You’d probably like the overture at least.”

“Oh please, why would I waste my time with that irrelevant garbage?” scoffed Rosenberg. “It’s a Freemason fairy tale, ugh! And all those soprano arias are horrend—”

Salieri had heard enough. “The man is dying, Rosenberg,” he spit out through gritted teeth, “and his work _is_ brilliant.” 

Rosenberg barked out a laugh. “You’ve become a fan? I never took you for a turncoat, Salieri. And he’s dying, you say? So much the be—”

Salieri cut him off with a punch to Rosenberg’s powdered cheek. “No, not better at all.” He stomped to the door, then added, “If I ever hear you speak ill of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart again, I will bruise more than your cheek, _Rosenbeeeeerg.”_ He stalked out of the music room, in desperate need of a stiff drink or a good cry (whichever came first). 

Arriving at his quarters, Salieri quickly poured a glass of brandy and took a long swig. _If I never see the Count again, it will be too soon,_ he thought. It may have been a bit much to punch Rosenberg, but he had been in a foul mood and the physical outlet helped relieve some of his tension. 

A footman arrived at his open door. “Herr Süssmayr is here to see you, Your Excellency,” he said. Salieri was surprised, but gestured for his former pupil to be admitted. 

Süssmayr entered the room, looking harried. “Forgive the intrusion, Salieri, but I had to come see you,” he said. 

Salieri gestured for Süssmayr to sit. “Whatever is the matter, Franz?” he asked. 

“It’s Wolfgang,” replied Süssmayr. “He’s not improving, but he won’t let Constanze or me call a doctor. He keeps asking to see you, so she relented and sent me to come get you. We hope you can at least improve his mood.”

“She’s really allowing me to come back, after throwing me out like that?” Salieri growled out. 

“I’ve never seen Wolfgang this broken, and neither has Constanze. We’re scared. You might be the only one who can help him now.” Süssmayr took a deep breath. “Please, Antonio. He needs you. Constanze isn’t happy about it but she’s willing to try anything, so yes, she’s allowing it.”

Salieri looked out the window. After a moment of consideration, he turned back to Süssmayr and said, “I will go to him. Give me an hour or so to get my affairs in order, and then I’ll be at his flat.” He shook hands with Süssmayr and added, “Don’t tell Wolfgang, I want to surprise him.” They smiled at each other and Süssmayr let himself out. 

Entering his bedroom, Salieri quickly took stock of what he might need. Based on Süssmayr’s response regarding Constanze, he imagined he wouldn’t be allowed to stay overnight; therefore, no need to pack any clothing. Perhaps a scarf, to keep away the chill. A book or two, a deck of cards - simple things to help keep Wolfgang occupied and not stressed. He also put his writing tablet in his valise, in case Wolfgang wanted to compose from the comfort of his bed. 

The Emperor turned out to be very receptive to Salieri’s request for time away from the palace. He admitted some regret for how things turned out with Mozart and sorrow for the Austrian composer’s current condition. He sent Salieri off with a basket of food and drink (including a very expensive bottle of red wine) for the Mozarts and told him to return when he felt ready. (He also halfheartedly reprimanded Salieri for punching Rosenberg, but the impish smirk on his face told his real feelings.)

Salieri arrived just over an hour after he spoke to Süssmayr. He hurried up the stairs to Mozart’s apartment and steeled himself to confront Constanze again. 

She answered his knock, then pursed her lips and joined him in the entryway. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the basket of goods. 

“The Emperor sends his regards and hopes that Herr Mozart will recover easily,” Salieri responded coolly. 

Constanze blushed in surprise, then collected herself. “Please tell him that we are grateful for his Imperial Majesty’s generosity. As for today, I have some rules to establish with you.”

Salieri raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“First, you are to leave when I return. I am going to see my children at my mother’s house. They are there to prevent them from catching my husband’s illness. I will return by sundown.”

“Understood.” _I would not want to subject Wolfgang to more of your screaming at me,_ Salieri thought. 

“Second,” Constanze continued, “Wolfgang is to refrain from strenuous activity. He has hardly slept these past two nights, so he’s quite exhausted. If you could get him to at least nap comfortably, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“I will do what I can,” Salieri replied. “Anything else?”

“Third, and perhaps most importantly, he is not to compose any music,” Constanze said. 

Salieri’s eyes widened. “Frau Mozart, that is ridiculous. You are aware that that is your husband’s profession? That he has a commission awaiting completion?”

“I am aware, Your Excellency, but that particular commission is what resulted in his current condition,” she replied. “Before I went to Baden, he spent all day and night on it, hardly eating or sleeping. It was frightening to watch, and I will not allow him to be so consumed again. He needs rest.”

“He needs music,” retorted Salieri.

“Then you may play music, but not write it,” Constanze said coldly. She pulled the food basket from his hand. “I am going to say goodbye to him, and then you may enter.” She retreated inside, leaving Salieri to scream internally at her restrictive but well-meaning rules. When she returned in her traveling cloak, she gestured for him to enter the apartment and then sharply slammed the door behind him. 

“Stanzi, why did you slam the door? It’s not helping my headache,” came a soft, croaky voice from the now-familiar divan. Wolfgang must have settled there for the day, so at least he could see the outside world from the windows. 

_Ah, she didn’t tell him I was coming,_ thought Salieri with grudging appreciation for Constanze. He quietly stepped around to the other side of the divan and said, “I can hardly be held accountable for your wife’s door habits, Wolfgang.”

Mozart’s face lit up in recognition. “Antonio, you came back!” He got up and threw himself into Salieri's arms. 

Salieri noted the tension in the Austrian composer’s brow, as well as his minute trembling. “Süssmayr asked me to come,” he said. “Now what’s this about a headache?”

Wolfgang grimaced sheepishly. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just another ache.” He coughed into his sleeve. “It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t been sleeping well and I’ve been crying and coughing a lot and Constanze won’t let me compose so my brain feels over full and I don’t have an outlet and I’m —” his babbling halted as he groaned, clutching his head. 

Salieri guided them back down onto the divan, wrapping Mozart in the blanket draped there. “Sounds to me like you’re dehydrated and sleeping poorly, so your head’s having a fit.” He gently cupped Mozart’s head in his right hand. His charge tensed at first, but then leaned into Salieri’s touch.

Mozart sighed and pouted slightly. “Stanzi forbid me from composing.”

“Yes, she told me,” Salieri replied. “She said the last time you worked on the Requiem, it was like you were possessed, ignoring all of your body’s needs.” _Superstitious woman, that’s just how he works,_ Salieri added mentally. 

“You’d think that after nine years of marriage, she’d understand my methods,” Wolfgang grumbled. Then he sighed and added, “reh evol I tub.”

“...What was that?” Salieri asked. Gibberish? More headache-induced or fevered mumbling?

“reh evol I tub,” Wolfgang repeated plainly, then realized why Salieri asked. “Oh, I forgot you don’t speak Backward.”

“Backward?” Suddenly, a memory appeared to Salieri - a banquet hall in Vienna, hiding behind a chair while Wolfgang and Constanze had a giggly conversation on the floor, both in blue satin. “Oh yes, that imaginary place where everything goes backwards. People speak, walk, dance —”

“And fart backward, yes!” Wolfgang crowed delightedly. Then, “Wait, how do you know about the Kingdom of Back? My sister and I made that up when we were children.”

Salieri flushed. “Um. Well, do you remember the first time you performed in Vienna, when you were still under Colloredo?” At Wolfgang’s nod, he continued, “Before you conducted your music, you and Constanze were having a...a moment in the banquet hall. I was hiding behind a chair because I had snuck in for some sweets and then you two came in and I heard the whole thing.” Salieri looked up to the ceiling, deeply embarrassed and pink-cheeked. 

Mozart laughed, that piercing hyena laugh that could only be his. “Oh good heavens, I didn’t know! I didn’t even know you were at that concert!” More laughter, then he calmed and said with one last chuckle, “I’m so sorry you heard us like that, Antonio.” 

“...enif si ti,” Salieri replied slowly, pondering each backward sound.

“Well done!” Mozart smiled up at Salieri, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen all day. “We’ll have you fluent in Backward in a week!”

 _“Santo_ _cielo_ ,” Salieri muttered. “Anyway, your wife said no composing, nothing strenuous.”

“What are we to do, then?” asked Mozart. “That sounds dreadfully boring.”

“Have you had breakfast? I could make you something to eat, and definitely some tea for that throat,” Salieri offered. _And if it happens to be something to help you sleep, all the better_ , he thought.

“I could definitely try to eat,” Mozart replied. He pointed Salieri in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m not sure what we have in there, but make whatever you like.”

Salieri helped Mozart into a reclining position, then took off for the kitchen. He noted that Constanze had set the Imperial basket of goods in here, which would definitely help to make a good meal. True to his prediction, Wolfgang had very little food in his pantry. _No wonder he’s so thin these days,_ Salieri thought, recalling the smallness of the Austrian’s torso. Fortunately, there was just enough available food to make something work. Salieri spotted a bowl of eggs and a butter dish on the counter, and in the Imperial basket he found a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and a red tomato. 

Thirty minutes later, Salieri emerged from the kitchen with a tray laden with an egg sandwich and a pot of mint-chamomile tea. “Please try to eat as much as you can,” he said, “but let me know if it’s too much.”

“It smells delicious,” Mozart replied. He took a small bite of the sandwich, and his eyes widened. “It _is_ delicious!” It took him a while, but he managed to eat the entire thing and drink a full cup of tea. “Thank you Antonio, that was the best breakfast I’ve had in — well, possibly ever.” 

Salieri smiled, took the tray from Mozart’s lap and set it on a nearby table. He shivered slightly and noted that the fire in the fireplace was getting low. He also recalled that he had left his cloak here the other day, after his abrupt departure courtesy of Constanze. It now hung on the coat rack by the door. 

Wolfgang had wrapped himself tighter in the divan blanket, but there was still a faint tremor in his slight frame. Salieri went to the coat rack, gathered up his cloak, and draped it around Wolfgang. He then tossed a fresh log into the fire and poured another cup of tea. Sitting beside Wolfgang, he handed him the teacup and quietly asked, “How is your head?”

“A little better,” Mozart replied, “but the cold doesn’t help.” He pulled the cloak around himself and smiled contentedly after a barky cough into his elbow. His free hand twitched nervously, then he asked, “Would you warm my hand again?”

“Finish that tea and I’ll warm both of your hands,” Salieri replied. Mozart did as he was asked, then held out his hands expectantly. Salieri smiled gently, taking the residual warmth of the teacup into his own palm and sending it back to Mozart. “Why do you like this so much?”

Mozart smiled sheepishly. “As I said when you were here last, your hands are so warm. It makes you seem less imposing to have such warmth, and I’m glad I get to see this side of you.”

“Imposing? How so?” Like he didn’t already know, but a small part of Salieri liked to know what people thought of him. Vanity.

“Salieri,” Mozart deadpanned, “you wear all black, you’re stupidly tall, and you rarely smile in public. The only person more imposing and scary than you is the Emperor.” 

Salieri smirked. “Well, at least my image is solid.”

“You know, I was convinced you hated me from the start, because you never smiled at me,” Mozart added after a moment. “Except that one time at that _Seraglio_ rehearsal, but I forced that out of you.” He sighed. “I don’t know what I did to deserve your ire, but I am so sorry, Antonio Salieri. Please forgive me.”

“No no no, Wolfgang, forgive _me_ ,” Salieri replied, eyes wide. “I was jealous of things you could not control, and I let my jealousy get the better of me. All I ever wanted was to shine with the same brilliance as you, to be Amadeus even once, but there is only one you.”

“Jealous? Of me?” Mozart chuckled mirthlessly. “All I have is my music, Salieri, that’s the one thing I’ve ever done right in my life. I disappointed my father with my work and my marriage, I’ve made my wife cry more times than I can count, my mother died because I -” he clutched his head again in pain. “I’m not as blessed as you’d think, Antonio. I’m only human.”

Salieri wrapped one arm around Wolfgang and brought him in closer. “That’s all we can be, after all.” 

Mozart sighed tiredly and worked himself further into Salieri’s space, resting his head in the junction between shoulder and neck. “All I ever wanted was to be your friend, because no one understood my music like you do.”

Salieri felt his heart skip a beat at the use of the word “friend,” and hoped Mozart didn’t hear it, being in such close proximity to his chest. “A-all right.” Suddenly, the early morning’s events came back to him. “Then as your friend, I should probably tell you that I punched Herr Rosenberg in the face to defend your honor this morning.”

Mozart peeled away to look him in the face. His brown eyes were wide in awe. “Now why did you do that?” 

“Because he was being horrible,” Salieri replied, “calling _The Magic Flute_ garbage and delighting in your illness. I was not having it, so I punched him for you.”

Mozart laughed. “Did the Emperor do anything?”

“A little slap on the wrist, called me _cattivo_ again.” Salieri shrugged and smiled impishly. “I’d do it again too.”

“I’m sure you would,” Mozart replied. He tensed slightly, then said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to relieve myself.” He slowly stood up, wobbling and clutching the end of the divan for support. 

Salieri steadied him, holding him upright while Mozart got his bearings. “Do you need me to help you to the washroom?”

Mozart squeezed Salieri’s right hand, then stepped away. “I’m not _that_ helpless, Antonio.” He made his way to the washroom, slowly but surely, and returned in the same way some minutes later. Once he was seated again, he rubbed at his temples with his eyes clenched shut.

“I just can’t seem to get rid of this headache today,” Wolfgang groaned as he rearranged his blanket. “What do you do for yours, ‘Tonio?”

Salieri, after a few moments of consideration, replied, “I try to make sure I’ve eaten and drank. Sometimes it’s not enough water or if I haven’t had coffee or tea that day, or if it’s been too long between food breaks.” He half-smiled at Wolfgang, then continued, “You just ate and had tea, which is essentially hot flavored water, so we’ll see what those do.”

“What next, then? What if food and drink don’t solve it?” Mozart asked.

“Then I try for relaxation, some peace and quiet. A nap if I have the time,” said Salieri. 

Wolfgang huffed out a breath. “It seems that all I do when you’re here is try to rest. I’m a dreadful host.” He sighed, then added, “But if you think it will help, I’ll try to relax and get some shuteye.”

Salieri nodded. “Your wife did ask me to try and get you to sleep if possible, so this is perfect. Now, do you want to sleep out here or in your bed?”

“Here. I want what little sunlight we can get this time of year,” Mozart replied. “It’s just enough that it doesn’t make my head feel worse.”

Salieri stood and went to grab a small pillow and a quilt from the bedroom. Once he returned, he noticed Mozart fidgeting, as if he wanted something. Sighing fondly, Salieri said, “Whatever it is you want to ask me, I’m probably going to say yes, so out with it.”

Mozart laughed softly, then asked, “Could... could I lay my head in your lap?”

Salieri’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “My lap?”

“It’s the best position! Have you ever done it?” Mozart sighed happily. “Everything seems better when you’re laying in a lap. I used to do it with my sister and my mother when I had headaches or couldn’t sleep. So, please?”

Salieri sighed deeply, feeling his cheeks flush. _That’s so intimate though, and he’s only done it with women’s laps before. We’re just barely friends. But he said it helps a lot, and I want him to relax, so...yes?_

“Of course, if you’re uncomfortable,” Mozart added, looking at his hands dejectedly, “we don’t have to do it this way. I just wanted you close by, that’s all.”

“No, it’s all right,” Salieri replied. “I was just- just thinking about the positioning of it.”

Mozart stood up. “You’ll sit at that end,” he pointed to the opposite end of the divan, “and then I’ll lay across horizontally.”

Salieri took a deep breath, then said, “Okay, we’ll do it. But first, if you’re going to wear my cloak, you’re going to wear it properly, Wolfgang.” He tied the black cloak as snugly as he could around Mozart’s slender frame, then sat on the divan. He set the small pillow from the bedroom behind him to support his lower back, then gestured for Mozart to join him. 

Wolfgang sat and draped his blankets across his legs, then reclined and gently laid his head in Salieri’s lap. He looked up into Salieri’s eyes and softly said, “There, nice and easy.”

Salieri took a deep breath. _Relax, Antonio, this is just a friendly thing._ “What happens now? What should I do with my hands?” His arms were awkwardly up in the air, posed as if he meant to start conducting something. 

Mozart chuckled, then reached for Salieri’s hands. He guided the left hand to his hair and laced his fingers with the right. “Usually a person would stroke the hair or do a little head rub, something to ease the tension.” 

Salieri thread his left hand in Mozart’s ash blonde locks, noting that it was still as soft as it was the last time he touched it. He delicately stroked Wolfgang’s scalp and his charge let out a soft sigh at the touch. Salieri put a little more effort into the touch, hoping not to hurt him, and Mozart’s eyes closed in pleasure. 

“‘Tonio, your hands are _perfect_ for this,” Mozart said, lips curving into a smile. 

“Did you get a lot of headaches when you were younger?” Salieri asked quietly. 

Wolfgang nodded. “Sometimes it was days like today, where I didn’t have an outlet for my thoughts and my brain felt over-full, or if... if Papa pushed me a little too hard and we forgot to take breaks. My sister was always there for me when things got rough, especially after Mama passed away.” He looked a little sad again. 

“That reminds me, I sent a message to your sister,” Salieri replied as he comfortingly squeezed Wolfgang’s hand. “Süssmayr and I thought she might want to know that you were feeling poorly.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mozart said, “but thank you. I don’t know that she’ll come to Vienna, but I hope you get to meet her if she does.”

“I hope so too.” Salieri shifted his hand around Wolfgang’s head, pressing slightly into his temple. When he felt the pressure there decrease, Wolfgang let out a relieved sigh and Salieri returned to stroking just the hair. His movements slowed, as did Wolfgang’s breathing. 

“I’m already feeling a little better,” Wolfgang said, “thank you, ‘Tonio.”

Salieri gently rested his hand against Mozart’s forehead, noting that the fever from earlier in the week was beginning to fade. “You feel a little cooler, Wolfgang. Are you comfortable?”

Mozart nodded. “I might be getting better after all.” His eyelids started to droop, and he yawned. “Do you mind if I nap here? It’s pretty cozy.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll be here when you wake up,” replied Salieri. 

Mozart chuckled, “Where else would you go?” His eyes slowly slipped shut and his breathing evened out. Unconsciously, he turned toward Salieri’s torso and snuggled in. 

“ _Sogni d’oro,_ Wolfgang,” whispered Salieri, releasing Mozart’s head and gently laying it on his thighs.


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later, Salieri had started on one of his books while Mozart lay asleep in his lap. Salieri’s left hand rested near Mozart’s head, occasionally stroking the ash blonde locks. 

Suddenly, Mozart began coughing. The action increased in intensity until Salieri had to help him up. Once done, Mozart blearily opened his eyes and smiled sleepily at Salieri. He gently settled back atop Salieri’s lap, then grasped the Italian’s right hand. 

“Feeling any better?” Salieri quietly asked. He smoothed Mozart’s hair back from his forehead, noting the slight heat there. The fever was returning.

Mozart arched his back as he stretched. “My head doesn’t ache as much,” he replied, “but now I’m a little thirsty.”

Salieri nodded. “I’ll get you some water and then more tea.” He helped Mozart up again, then settled his charge back to a resting position on the divan. He returned with a cup of cool water after putting on the kettle for tea. 

This time, Salieri sat by Wolfgang’s feet and began gently stroking them through his stockings. Wolfgang smiled widely at the gentle touch. 

“‘Tonio, how did you get so good at massage and the like?” Mozart asked. 

Salieri thread his fingers through Wolfgang’s toes, wiggling them apart. “After so many years of working with musical instruments, I’d like to think that I’m good with my hands. Could you say the same, Wolfgang?”

Mozart chuckled. “Probably.” Then, he seemed to shift gears. “Speaking of musical instruments, Antonio, I have a favor to ask.”

“What would you like me to do now, Wolfgang?” Salieri asked. 

“Play for me,” Mozart replied. “It’s been far too quiet in this house these last few days, and I would love to have some music.” 

The tea kettle whistled, and Salieri got up. “After I’ve made us some tea,” he said while on his way to the kitchen, “I’ll play for you.” 

After preparing a fresh cup of tea for Mozart (adding a generous dollop of honey to help his poor throat), Salieri went to peruse Mozart’s scores by the piano. _The Marriage of Figaro_ caught his eye. He didn’t want anything too loud or boisterous, but he was rather fond of this opera’s music, so it was hard to make a choice. As he got to the third act, he found what he wanted to play: “ _Sull’aria_ ,” the letter-writing duet for Susanna and the Countess. 

Mozart looked over when he realized what Salieri was playing. He smiled and asked, “What made you choose that one?”

“I wanted something gentle,” Salieri replied, “and I thought this was one of your prettiest melodies.” 

“You’re really so kind, Antonio,” Mozart said.

Salieri heard the clink of teacup on saucer. He turned and found Mozart at his right side, looking at him expectantly. Salieri brought his hands up from the keys, startled. 

“Let’s play, _à_ _quatre mains_ ,” Mozart said. He gently pushed Salieri to the left side of the bench and sat beside him. “I’ll play the vocal parts, you do the accompaniment?”

Salieri gulped, then nodded. “From the beginning, then?”

Mozart made an affirmative sound, then started in on Susanna’s line. He nodded, and Salieri began the arpeggiating accompaniment, outlining chords underneath Mozart’s playing. Salieri was glad that the accompaniment was not too complex, but he still had to work to maintain the delicacy the piece required. It was also hard not to get lost just listening to Mozart or when their hands brushed each other, but he kept up.

Once done, they raised their hands at the same time and smiled at each other. 

Wolfgang sighed contentedly. “You know, playing _à_ _quatre mains_ was how I met Constanze.”

“Oh? What did you play with her?” Salieri asked. He grumbled internally, _Why did you have to bring her up?_

“I was visiting an inn in Mannheim with Mama. Stanzi was playing my ‘ _Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman_ ’ variations but the rest of the patrons didn’t appreciate it, so I ran up to the pianoforte, dried her tears, and played alongside her. She did pretty well at adjusting to playing with a complete stranger.” Mozart smiled. “So clever, my Stanzi.”

“Those variations are also quite clever,” replied Salieri, “yours always are.”

“Thank you, ‘Tonio.” Wolfgang nuzzled his head against Salieri’s right shoulder, then glanced at the door. “Do you think it counts as composing if I play you something new but I don’t write it down?”

“A technicality, but I won’t tell your wife if you don’t.” Salieri mentally shrieked with joy at the idea of new music from his friend. He got up from the bench and stood behind Mozart. 

Wolfgang began to play, outlining a D minor triad in the left hand while the right hand resolved into consonance. He softly announced when the chorus was to enter and his right hand teased out a melody. Dissonance resolving into consonance over and over again, each dissonance growing denser with the restatement of the theme. Finally, it resolved with a conclusive D major triad. Mozart lifted his hands from the keyboard and leaned back against Salieri with a deep sigh. He reached up and tangled their hands together. 

After a moment, Mozart looked up at Salieri and asked, “What do you think of it?”

Salieri gasped, coming back to himself. “I...” he began, “I thought it was beautiful, of course, but also incredibly sad. What was that piece, Wolfgang?”

“It will be the Lacrimosa in my Requiem,” Mozart replied. “I’ve had it in my head since my—” a cough — “since my mother died. I ran away from our rooms in Paris into a storm. I swear the rain sounded just like this to me.”

Salieri nodded. It had definitely sounded like Wolfgang was painting a picture of a steady drizzle of rain, and the final chord was the clouds breaking up for just a moment. But he was a little puzzled. “If you’ve had it in your head for so long, why haven’t you written it out?”

“It never felt like the right moment, the right composition for such a melody. But now, I think it’s time.” Mozart turned and pulled Salieri to sit beside him again, firmly clasping their hands together. “Antonio, I want you to promise me something.” 

“Of course, Wolfgang, anything,” Salieri replied.

Mozart looked Salieri straight in the eye, all business. “If I do die before I finish my Requiem, I want you and Süssmayr to finish it. Please, promise me you will?”

Salieri gasped, then swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded solemnly. “I will do my best.”

Mozart gave a soft but sad smile. “Thank you, my dear friend.” He came in even closer and hesitantly folded himself around Salieri in a hug. 

Salieri flushed at the close contact but wrapped his arms around Mozart’s slender waist. _Whatever you need,_ _dear Wolfgang_ , he thought, _I will do my best to see it done._

Mozart yawned, then coughed softly. “I think that’s enough music for now,” he said as he peeled away from Salieri. He wrapped himself in Salieri’s cloak and shuffled back to the divan. He poured himself another cup of tea and looked expectantly back at the pianoforte. Salieri took the cue and returned to the divan as well. 

“What were you reading before I woke up, Antonio?” Mozart asked. 

Salieri picked up the book from the little table and showed its cover to Mozart. “Just a little Shakespeare. I’d been meaning to reread his sonnets for some time.”

“Would you read to me? You have a lovely speaking voice.” Mozart smiled as he finished his tea. 

Salieri nodded and flipped to where he had left off. _Ah, 104, perfect for such an angelic creature as Wolfgang._ He read aloud: 

“ _To me, fair friend, you never can be old,_

_For as you were, when first your eye I ey'd,_

_Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold_

_Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,_

_Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd_

_In process of the seasons have I seen,_

_Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,_

_Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green._

_Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,_

_Steal from his figure and no pace perceiv'd;_

_So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,_

_Hath motion and mine eye may be deceiv'd:_

_For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;_

_Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead._ ”

  
The Austrian composer smiled sleepily at Salieri. “Keep going, please?” 

“Here, let’s settle you first,” replied Salieri. “You look like you might drift off again, Wolfgang.” He patted his lap and Mozart took the offer. Salieri tugged the quilt from earlier back into place, then picked up the book again. 

Mozart dozed while Salieri read more sonnets. Just as it looked like he was about to properly fall back asleep again, there was a sound of keys jangling, and then the front door opened. 

Constanze narrowed her eyes at the scene before her, redirecting her glare at Salieri. “Your Excellency, I’m pleased to see my husband resting but this was not quite the position I had in mind,” she spit out through gritted teeth. 

Mozart sat up. “Stanzi, please don’t be mad at Antonio,” he said. “I just wanted to get some sunlight while I rested, and you know I always say that a lap is the most comfortable pillow in the world.” 

Constanze inhaled, then slowly let it out. “All right, Wolfie. I’ll allow it, since he did as I asked and made you comfortable.” She approached the divan and helped Wolfgang up. “But for now, I think it’s time we got you into bed. Per our agreement, your friend has to leave now.”

“Can Antonio come back tomorrow? And can he bring Süssmayr?” Wolfgang asked. From his seat on the divan, Salieri could see Mozart’s eyes shining in that pleading, childlike way of his. 

She looked at Salieri, then back at Wolfgang and said, “As long as he obeys the same rules as today, he may return tomorrow.” She looked at Salieri. “Understood?”

“Yes, Frau Mozart,” Salieri replied coolly. “I shall return tomorrow morning, around the same time. If Herr Süssmayr is available, I will invite him to join us. Good evening, Wolfgang.” He tucked the book of Shakespeare sonnets in his valise and got up to leave the flat. 

“Wait, ‘Tonio, your cloak!” said Wolfgang, scrambling away from Constanze and trying to untie the cloak. “It’s cold outside!”

“I’m warm enough, Wolfgang,” replied Salieri, “you keep it for now.” He gently squeezed Wolfgang‘s shoulder and left the flat, making sure to close the door quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry it’s been a while since my last update. Writer’s Block got to me, but I’m going to try to be more consistent from this moment onward.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, Wolfgang and Nannerl lost contact with each other in 1788 and she didn’t know of his poor condition until she read a biography of her brother around 1800. She also didn’t see Constanze again until the latter moved to Salzburg in 1820, and she didn’t meet her nephew Franz until 1821. All of this made me so sad, so I decided to cut the Mozart siblings a break and let them see each other here.

The next day, Salieri arrived around the same time, carrying a basket of freshly baked breakfast pastries from a nearby patisserie. However, he was surprised to find a carriage already parked outside of the flat, with a few bags atop it. He didn’t expect Süssmayr to arrive until later in the afternoon, if he could get away. He approached the carriage and found a young woman about to exit it. He hurried to help her down and met her surprised gaze. She was blonde and dressed for travel, with brown eyes just like Wolfgang’s. 

“Fraulein, are you here to see Herr Mozart?” Salieri asked. 

“Yes, sir, I am here to see my brother,” the young woman replied. She cocked her head to the side as she looked up at him. “You wouldn’t happen to be Herr Salieri, by any chance?” 

Salieri nodded, and then he realized to whom he was speaking. “Are you his sister, then? Maria Anna?”

The woman nodded happily, then threw herself into Salieri’s arms. “Thank you so much for writing to me, Your Excellency. I was so worried when Wolfgang stopped writing, but to think that he was so ill, I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him again. Thank you, sir, thank you!” She kissed his cheek. “Oh, and call me Nannerl. Everyone does.” 

Salieri initially tensed at the surprise hug, but when he realized that the woman was Wolfgang’s sister, he took it in stride. “I am glad you were able to visit, Fraulein. Come, let us go to your brother. And you may call me Antonio or Salieri, if you like.” He offered Nannerl his arm and they strode through the main door, the carriage porter trailing behind. 

Nannerl knocked on the door to the flat. Constanze answered, and the glare she must have prepared for Salieri immediately dropped when she saw Nannerl. 

“Nannerl, what a surprise!” Constanze said happily. “Whatever are you doing here, darling?” 

After kissing her sister-in-law’s cheek in greeting, Nannerl replied, “Salieri wrote me of Wolfie’s condition, so I came to see him.” 

Constanze mildly glared at Salieri. “Herr Salieri did not tell me he wrote to you, but I am very glad that he did. Come in, both of you, Wolfie will be delighted to see you!” She led them inside, taking the breakfast pastries from Salieri as she did so. 

After removing their cloaks and settling her luggage, Nannerl followed Constanze and Salieri into the bedroom. She hid behind Salieri, wanting to surprise her brother even further. 

Constanze gently roused Wolfgang, and he childishly rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Darling, we have visitors,” she said softly as she draped Salieri’s forgotten cloak around her husband’s shoulders. 

Wolfgang yawned, then turned to face Salieri. “Good morning, ‘Tonio. Did you bring Süssmayr with you?”

Salieri smiled and shook his head. “He’ll join us later today if he can. For now, I’ve brought you someone even more dear.” He reached behind him and guided Nannerl into view. 

“Hello, Wolfie,” she said. 

Wolfgang’s jaw dropped and he let out a surprised squawk. “Nannerl?! What on earth are you— who, how — _Nannerl_?!”

“Dearest brother, is that any way to greet your beloved older sister?” Nannerl chuckled, then came around to sit beside Wolfgang before folding him into her breast for a hug. “Uoy evol I, uoy evol I,” she murmured softly as he shook in her arms - with laughter or tears, Salieri couldn’t say. Possibly both. 

After a few moments of sibling cuddling, Wolfie wiped his eyes and asked, “Not that I’m not delighted to see you, but how and why did you come to be here, Nannerl?” 

“Your friend Salieri wrote me a few days ago and told me you were doing poorly. I thought a visit from your favorite sister might help you feel a little better, Wolfie,” said Nannerl.

“Antonio is a nosy genius, isn’t he?” Wolfgang chuckled. “I’m so sorry I haven’t written to you lately, dear one, I’ve just had so much going on.” He coughed into his sleeve, then went on to tell his sister everything that had happened since their last letters. 

Constanze stepped out of the bedroom and cocked an eyebrow at Salieri, which he took as an indication for him to do the same. She left the door cracked open and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. Salieri brought the pastries into the kitchen and got some plates. 

With a moderately annoyed huff, Constanze said, “Thank you for bringing Nannerl here, Your Excellency. If I had known of my husband’s condition sooner, I would have invited her myself.”

“I hope I did not overstep my bounds, Frau Mozart,” Salieri replied coolly. “Herr Süssmayr told me about her and I thought Wolfgang might turn a corner if she were here.” 

“It’s possible,” she said as she poured hot water into a teapot. Constanze turned to look at him after arranging the tea tray. “The parameters I set yesterday still apply, though. I don’t want him to relapse again.”

“Understood, Frau Mozart,” Salieri said. “Will you still go and attend to your children today?”

“Yes, but not for long,” Constanze responded. “I haven’t seen Nannerl in years, so I want to visit with her as well.”

Salieri’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “Family is important. Would that your children could come to see their aunt as well.”

Constanze sighed as she picked up the tea tray and headed into the sitting room. “If only.” Salieri followed with the pastries and plates, and they waited for the Mozart siblings to emerge from the bedroom. 

About ten minutes later, Wolfgang and Nannerl appeared, arm in arm. The former was walking more steadily than previous days, which Salieri found comforting. Wolfgang’s eyes looked a little brighter and his smile was almost as wide and joyful as it used to be. 

_He really did miss his sister_ , Salieri mused as he drew up a chair at the coffee table. 

Wolfgang settled between his wife and his sister on the divan and took the pastry Salieri offered him. Constanze poured tea for everyone and passed around the cream and sugar. Everyone ate their breakfast happily, quiet save for a stray cough from Wolfgang now and then. Once everyone was done, Constanze gathered up the dishes and returned them to the kitchen. She told the Mozart siblings of her plans for the day, promising to return in a couple of hours. She made eye contact with Salieri briefly, as if reminding him to be mindful of their agreement on Wolfgang’s care. She kissed each Mozart on the cheek as she left.

When Wolfgang went to the restroom to relieve himself, Nannerl turned to Salieri. She asked, “Why does Stanzi look like she wants to stab you every time she looks at you?”

Salieri shifted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t the greatest friend to Wolfgang when he first started work here in Vienna and she hasn’t quite forgiven me for that,” he said. 

Nannerl nodded in understanding. “I’m sure it will pass soon.” She paused, then asked, “How did you come to be here with my brother, anyway?”

Wolfgang returned to the sitting room at that moment and answered for Salieri. “I felt poorly at a performance of _The Magic Flute_ , and Salieri swooped in like a fairytale knight and brought me home.” He smiled and squeezed the Italian composer’s shoulder on his way back to the divan. “He’s been taking care of me while Stanzi goes and sees to the children. Specifically, he’s really good at keeping my hands warm.” He blinked innocently at Salieri and raised his hands just slightly from his lap. 

Salieri huffed out a sigh and brought his chair closer to the divan, then gently wrapped his hands around Wolfgang’s. He smirked at the younger composer and said, “Use your words next time, Wolfgang.”

Wolfgang smiled impishly and apologized. “Sorry, it’s just become almost routine.” He looked at his sister. “Nannerl, you should try this when he’s got a moment free. His hands are _so_ warm, it’s amazing.”

Nannerl chuckled at her brother. “I’ll be sure to do that, Wolfie. You need it more than me right now, so take as much warmth as you like.” She turned and, spotting a pile of logs beside the fireplace, fed the flames. Once she was seated again, she asked, “How did you come to know each other, Wolfgang?”

Her brother smiled. “We met for the first time when I came to meet with the Emperor about _The Abduction from the Seraglio_. I wasn’t sure if he liked me, but then he came to one of my rehearsals and I made him laugh.”

“He forced it out of me,” Salieri added. 

“Did he do something really stupid?” Nannerl asked, and when Salieri nodded in reply, she nodded in commiseration. “He does that. When he was six, he stumbled off the pianoforte bench and, when she caught him, asked Princess Marie Antoinette if she would marry him on the spot. Her laugh was adorable.”

“Just the sort of laugh you’d expect from a Princess,” Wolfgang said. “I hope she is still able to laugh as freely as Queen.”

Salieri grimaced, knowing of the situation with Marie Antoinette and her people. He bit his tongue, not wanting to worry Wolfgang further. 

“Anyway, Salieri always comes to my performances,” Wolfgang said. “He’s the only colleague of mine who does nowadays.”

“Except for Süssmayr, of course,” Salieri added. “But really, how could I miss the work of Vienna’s most brilliant composer?”

“Wolfie used to say such things about your work in his letters, Salieri,” Nannerl said. 

Salieri felt his cheeks reddening. “He did? My talents hardly compare to his, but the compliment is greatly appreciated.”

“Of course, dear friend,” Wolfgang replied. “In fact, would you mind playing something for us? I’m still not fond of how quiet it is here.”

Salieri flushed bright pink. “I couldn’t — Wolfgang, surely you’d rather hear something of yours?” 

Wolfgang barked out a laugh. “I hear my own work all the time in my head, gets to be a bit annoying. Please, ’Tonio, for me?”

Salieri shuffled over to the keyboard and sat down, hands clenching and unclenching over the keys as he thought of what to play. He could hardly say no to those pleading Mozart eyes, but what to play in the presence of such greatness? After all, Nannerl was almost a more celebrated musician than her brother. 

Suddenly, it came to him - he would play something that he and Wolfgang had worked on together. Their one collaboration, a cantata they wrote for Nancy Storace some years ago. He would have to adapt the right hand to incorporate the vocal line, but it would be doable. Now with a plan of attack, he began to play. 

When he had finished his performance, the Mozart siblings applauded him joyfully. 

“Antonio, that was lovely!” said Nannerl. “Wolfie was right, you _are_ gifted.”

Salieri smiled at her in thanks. “You are too kind, Nannerl.” 

“She’s right, ’Tonio, you play so well,” added Wolfgang. “Was that your part of the piece we did for Madame Storace? I thought it seemed familiar.” 

“Good memory, Wolfgang. Perhaps you’d like to play your portion?” Salieri stood and looked through Wolfgang’s folio for the score of the piece. “If you feel up to it, of course.”

“Antonio, have you ever known me to turn down an offer to play?” Wolfgang quipped. Nannerl supported him as he strode over to the pianoforte bench, and Salieri made room for him. “Nan, would you turn pages for us, darling?” His sister nodded, and he began to play. 

Salieri was unsure where to look as Wolfgang played. The delicate hands flitting across the keys, the brown eyes racing to read the notes, the hint of a tongue poking out in concentration - it was all a flurry of activity. To think that even in his weakened state, Wolfgang could muster up the energy for this; the man was a miracle. 

When he was done, Wolfgang lifted his hands with a flourish and then grinned at Salieri. Nannerl came to stand behind her brother and carded through his hair. 

“How was that?” Wolfgang asked. 

“Lovely as always, Wolfie,” Nannerl replied, and bent to kiss her brother’s cheek. 

“Agreed,” said Salieri. 

“Do you want to tackle Cornetti’s movement? I’ve never actually seen the thing, but I’m sure it’s still good,” Wolfgang said, smirking. “Not as good as if either of us wrote it, of course, but adequate.” 

“Adequate is definitely the word I would use, Wolfgang,” Salieri replied with a chuckle. “ _Cattivo_ , but it’s true.” The siblings also chuckled at Salieri’s remark. 

After a little more music from the keyboard, including a performance from Nannerl, the trio retreated to the divan. Wolfgang yawned and laid his head in his sister’s lap. Salieri guided Wolfgang’s feet into his lap and tucked the quilt from yesterday around the younger composer. 

“I’ll just shut my eyes for a little while,” said Wolfgang softly. Nannerl nodded and stroked her brother’s hair. He held her free hand loosely in his as he drifted into sleep. 

Nannerl smiled warmly down at her brother, then asked, “Tell me truly, Antonio: how is my brother doing?”

Salieri sighed deeply. “When Süssmayr and I brought him here after his episode at the opera house, Wolfgang was convinced that his death was imminent. He’s been coughing a lot, he’s feverish frequently, his appetite has decreased, and he was all alone until we intervened and his wife came home. He wouldn’t let us bring a doctor to assess the situation, but it’s still unclear if he will turn the corner at this point.”

Nannerl nodded gravely. “I am glad you were able to be there to catch him in his fall. I do wish Stanzi hadn’t left him like this, though.”

“She was afraid and sad for his working methods,” Salieri replied. “She needed a break.” _But I’m also hesitant to forgive her for leaving in his hour of need,_ he thought. _What happened to “in sickness and in health” for marriage?_

“Our father always pushed him to work until he was finished,” Nannerl said, “regardless of how he was feeling or how tired he was.” She stroked Wolfgang’s hair and he snuggled deeper into her lap. “Papa was a brilliant musician and a great teacher, but I do wish he hadn’t pushed Wolfie so hard.” 

“I heard that you also used to tour with them?” Salieri asked. 

Nannerl nodded. “Wolfie started watching me when Papa was giving me music lessons, and that was how we realized my brother was such a gifted musician. He learned much faster than I, but at the time I was the more skilled. Papa said that if I weren’t born a woman, he would have let me tour and make music forever, just like Wolfie.” She smiled sadly, carding a hand in her brother’s hair again. “Perhaps if I had kept at it, Wolfie would have had another shoulder to lean on.”

“I’m glad he has you now, though,” Salieri said. 

“And I you, Antonio,” Nannerl replied, reaching across to squeeze Salieri’s left hand. She smiled once their hands were linked and added, “Wolfie was right, your hands _are_ perfectly warm!” 

“Dloc nur htob uoy ebyam,” Salieri said slowly, getting a chuckle from Nannerl at his Backward speech. 

“I see my brother’s taught you our language too. Well done, Maestro!” Nannerl’s smile was just as wide and bright as Wolfgang’s could be. 

Wolfgang stirred slightly from his sister’s lap. “Antonio is one of the cleverest men I know,” he said through a yawn. 

“Rehtorb raed, eegra I,” Nannerl replied. She set a pillow in her lap so Wolfgang was at a little more of an incline. “And you were right about his hands, but he thinks it might be that we both run cold.”

“No no,” said Wolfgang. “He’s warm because he wears so much black that he always absorbs all the heat in whatever space he’s in and stores it in himself.”

Nannerl rolled her eyes but smirked. “Wolfie, that’s not how that works.”

“You don’t know that!” Wolfie retorted, dissolving into giggles and then coughs. Once he was done, he laid back in Nannerl’s lap, reaching for Salieri’s hand at the same time. 

Salieri stroked Wolfgang’s hand with his thumb, smiling softly at the Mozart siblings. _Would that we could just stay like this,_ he thought. 

Suddenly, there was a jangling of keys at the door and Constanze appeared, with Süssmayr in tow. 

“Franz, welcome!” said Wolfgang brightly, scrambling to rise. He dragged Nannerl with him away from the divan and they both warmly greeted Süssmayr and Constanze. 

Salieri also rose from the divan, knowing that his departure time was approaching. He felt the usual regret at leaving Wolfgang, but felt slightly better knowing that he was surrounded by such love and warmth. 

Just as he was getting ready to turn the door handle, Constanze called out, “Your Excellency, will you join us for lunch?” 

Salieri turned back, and noted that Constanze was not glaring at him for once. He replied, “Gladly, Frau Mozart,” and hung his cloak back on the rack.


End file.
